


Nutrition Facts

by kaulayau



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Dark Comedy, Family Drama, Family Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, I listened to a song about cows and it truly inspired me, I’ve been listening to a lot of musicals lately in addition to the cow song, Memory Loss, Miss Saigon continues to be one of my problematic favorites, also it’s the blaze-it day!, lots of science-y stuff, no math in this one I promise, the cow song has driven me to take initiative in my life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-22 22:23:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18536662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaulayau/pseuds/kaulayau
Summary: Because — Five has opened an infinite number of causal loops. Of chains that close back and back and back, inward and inward — the Commission prides itself on these. This catalyzes this causing this, starting this, finding this. They have collided past the point of recognition. The map in his mind is erasing itself.In other words: Five is losing his memories.border border borderHe doesn’t know how long he has left.





	Nutrition Facts

**Author's Note:**

> I need those extra points on the rubric so here’s my works cited: [this](https://www.nia.nih.gov/health/alzheimers-disease-genetics-fact-sheet), [this](https://www.bu.edu/research/articles/human-brain-store-retrieve-memories/), [this](https://qbi.uq.edu.au/brain-basics/memory/how-are-memories-formed), [this](https://www.nm.org/healthbeat/medical-advances/how-the-brain-hides-traumatic-memories), [this](https://www.health.harvard.edu/mind-and-mood/do-we-lose-memories-forever), and [this](https://www.vanderbilt.edu/olli/class-materials/Neuroscience_April4th.pdf)
> 
> happy 4/20!

Vanya gave him this pen when they were eleven. And yeah, he fucking loves it. She didn’t think much of it when she handed it over — it’s a regular, G2, full-pack pen, a clicker with purple ink that’s just starting to middle out — she prefers pencil — but he’s kept it. Five doesn’t really _use_ it, but it’s almost comforting.

He rolls it between his fingers. One, two, three, four, five. The labels have been rubbed away by the oil on his hands.

Klaus is sitting across from him, kicking Five’s knees under the table. He’s cutting up his breakfast bar with a fork and a knife.

Ben gets up, shaking his head, and returns with two bowls of cereal. (He gives one to Klaus.)

Diego’s reading something from a newspaper — new shit must have happened with the World Boxing Council — and Vanya’s reading over his shoulder. Then they’re talking about what they’re seeing.

Allison’s pouring Five some orange juice, looking at him (and he fucking thanks her, because being an asshole right now would expend too much energy. Allison deserves the thanks).

Luther’s blowing the steam out of his coffee. (Five hasn’t taken it from him yet. They got the good shit yesterday — the Boca Java shit, the ground-bean shit — so Luther’s on thin ice right now.)

He kind of takes it in. He accounts every detail.

There is a duality in decisions. Both paths coexist simultaneously — though one will inevitably be carried out. Two things have equal weight at this moment: he and his siblings will have their breakfast. It will be peaceful; Klaus will keep kicking him; Diego and Vanya will keep talking; Allison will distribute orange juice around the table; Ben will eat his cereal; Luther will drink his coffee. Or there will be chaos. The chaos is immersive.

He used to be able to determine that. Time travel has given him that proclivity. But right now, he just — doesn’t want to miss a fucking thing.

“Remember that time,” Klaus begins, “when we were, like.” He’s dipped his breakfast bar into his cereal bowl. “I think it was twelve?”

And everyone glances up.

“There was a lot of times when we were twelve,” Diego says slowly.

“Yeah.” Ben pulls up a chair and sits. (He gets one for Allison, too.) “A whole year.”

“Bitch,” says Klaus. “I was talking Christmas.” A handful of them pause, then make a sound of recognition. “Y’all fucking know about _Christmas,_  right?”

Luther, Diego, Allison, Klaus, Ben, and Vanya consider it. Then their laughter shakes the house.

Just.

Memory is a fickle fucking thing. It’s messages — synaptic plasticity changes the strength of connections between neurons — and no one has a fucking actual clue about it. There’s no _real_ bridge between the goddamn prefrontal cortex and dorsal hippocampus. Not really. It’s dumb. The brain is fucking mush. The ten-percent rule is a lie.

“No, yeah,” says Vanya. “That was when we were a little younger, I think. Wasn’t it? Not twelve. God, the fireplace…”

Allison sighs. “I thought the house was going to burn down.” Her voice is still rough and faded, but it’s getting better.

“ _I_ thought we were going to fucking suffocate,” sings Klaus. (This time he kicks Five in the shin. It’s not enough to inflict injury, so Five lets it slide.) “Five’s _arm_ , though. It’s — it was worse than Diego’s.”

Five’s arm.

Everyone else groans.

“Who was the one who threw the baby wipe into the fire?” Luther wants to know. “Was it me?”

“Not you,” says Diego. “You wouldn’t do that shit. It was — God, _was_ it you? Was it _me?_ It wasn’t.”

Five doesn’t fucking follow.

“It was Klaus,” says Allison. “I know this for a fact. It was Klaus.”

“It was a-fucking _not,_ ” says Klaus. “Well, it was. Just — Diego said I could.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Dumbass runs in the family.”

“How did we get out, like, basically unfazed?” asks Vanya. “How come none of our shit got burned up?”

“Luther found the fire extinguisher,” Ben says. “And then Dad and Pogo — Dad and Pogo did _something_. I don’t even know what. A cult circle, maybe.”

“Mom didn’t even notice the smoke,” says Luther. “Klaus, _you_ didn’t even notice the smoke. I had to carry you out.”

Klaus gapes. “That did _not_ happen.”

“I remember it,” says Vanya, drinking her orange juice.

Well — yeah.

Five’s lost on it.

Maybe there’s the brain’s limbic system, used for memory: hippocampus, amygdala, cingulate gyrus, some other shit he can’t pick up right now — but there’s nothing to connect it. Nothing he or anyone else in the world knows of. The brain is _stupid_. It’s crumpled paper and crushed-up ice. It suppresses what it needs to suppress. It’ll box and block-off. Everything that comes with it is situational. It’s a fucking dumbass thing and it _knows_.

“The only thing that didn’t survive was that beaver, right?” says Ben. “That one — taxidermied piece of shit. He was beautiful.”

“The beaver was the sacrifice,” says Klaus. The lot of them snickers.

But what about the brain on _time travel?_ Time travel is a ceaseless rush; a hook without a line to pull it back. Time travel is an eternal state of jet lag. Adaptation won’t occur if the environment is constantly changing.

No one has been where Five has been. At least not to his extent. The sample size is not to scale.

“And Five’s arm,” adds Vanya. They all hum their recollection. The same chorus as before. “He _shattered_ it. That was the only thing.”

Five has his theories.

None of them are particularly reassuring.

He drops his pen on the kitchen table (fuck), and he picks it up again.

Five does not know about Christmas. He does not remember a fire. He doesn’t remember ever breaking his arm.

Oh, fuck.

“Nothing’s wrong,” he coughs. “I’ll be back.” He takes his orange juice.

* * *

Something has happened to his fucking mush. Time may not exist at all — it might be a sliver of human comprehension in a world where human comprehension is human error — or it’s real, and everything is taken one step at a time. There’s only so much a mind can take before deteriorating.

It’s just. Neuronal loss occurs with — bad luck. Genetics, lifestyle, a flip of a coin. When Five travels through time, he moves faster than light. He violates the conservation of energy. A mass sent back in time is tampered with. When he jumps, he jumps past his body — it’s too fast to bring anything _real_ with him — but his consciousness remains as it is. Every movement is a paradigm shift. Everything in front of him will seem doctored and unnatural.

(Because Five has opened an infinite number of causal loops. Of chains that close back and back and back, inward and inward — the Commission prides itself on these. This catalyzes this causing this, starting this, finding this. They have collided past the point of recognition. The map in his mind is erasing itself.)

In other words: Five is losing his memories.

He doesn’t know how long it’ll take before they’re gone.

Shit.

Well — no. He doesn’t _know_. It might not be true. He doesn’t know for sure. There’s no fucking case studies on time travel. There’s nothing to prove it but him, and besides, he’s fallible.

He’s just being fucking — dramatic. Five never grew out of it. He’s making it up. He can’t come to terms that shit is good — for once in his life, things are _good_ — Allison stopped blaming herself. Klaus keeps his head clear. Diego’s lowered his defenses. Luther’s starting to see he’s worth more than the Moon. _Ben_ is back to stay. Vanya’s _laughing_ again — and Five needs to find leverage.

He’s afraid of getting better. That’s it. That’s — fucking bullshit, but it’s there none-the-fucking-less.

Five _can’t_ be forgetting.

When did he break his arm?

There’s a glass of orange juice on his dresser.

He examines his elbows. One protrudes a centimeter left, like evidence.

Oh, God, when was it? How old was he? How tall? Christmas, Klaus said. What time? Morning, evening? Who was there? None of them know who started it.

Maybe it never happened. His siblings have collectively lapsed.

This has never happened before.

God, what’s he going to tell them? They won’t understand. Diego’s fucking pigheaded. Always has been. Allison’s on the same route — she thinks she can whisk shit away like a rumor. Luther has never taken bad news well. He’s always grabbed the worst of two options — it’s a complex. Klaus pretends he was never told. He lets it pile. He doesn’t address it unless he’s forced. Ben — picks and chooses. He was like that as a kid. He didn’t look at what he didn’t like. And Vanya…

“Ben’s… dead,” they told her. “He’s dead, Vanya.” Their voices were hoarse. She didn’t answer. She walked the hallway as if there were still seven of them.

They told her again.

She covered her ears.

“Vanya,” they went.

She shook her head.

Their sister never cried. Not when she was hurt. Not when _they_ were hurt. She was more Stoic than Empiricist.

And Five said, “Listen. Don’t you hear me? _Listen_.” Was he _mad_ at her? Frustrated? Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance.

She cried then.

Vanya hugged Five like he was the one sobbing.

They all hugged each other. It was the closest that their pack of seven would get to unity. They’d never find it like that again, no matter the timeline.

(He remembers _that_. Why not a fire? A broken arm?)

He doesn’t want it to leave him.

No. No, nothing’s _happening_ to him.

Goddammit, his hands are shaking.

It’s not true. It’s not true.

When the _fuck_ did he break his arm?

He never fucking broke his arm. He would have remembered. Five has a _fucking photographic memory_. A fucking photographic memory. He’s memorized the layout of the Academy. He knows their old breakfast-lunch-and-dinner recordings like the hands of a clock. He can count every death at his hands. Every locale. Every caliber of every bullet. He prides himself on his mind. He prides himself on being a fucking smartass. He _always_ knows what they’re talking about. He always knows what’s going on. What’s Five without experience? What’s Five without his goddamn brain?

Photos. They have photos in the fucking basement. He makes the jump —

Here, in this filing cabinet. Their dad never took pictures — Mom was programmed to use a camera.

There are manilla folders. Nineteen-eighty-nine. Nineteen-ninety. Okay, then — two-thousand. Two-thousand-one.

He takes it.

He circles back to base and sits on his bed.

There is a picture of Klaus and Diego, running. There is a picture of Luther and Vanya in the snow. There is a picture of Allison, her arms covered in bracelets. There is a picture of Ben, pointing at the sky.

There is a photo of Five with his arm in a sling. He seems fucking murderous in this picture. He’s murderous in every picture.

Oh, fuck.

“You okay?” It’s Vanya. She’s knocking his door. Behind her is the rest of his family. “Ben still made you toast and eggs.” She has the plate.

God.

(He never broke his goddamn arm. Really. Really.

If he did —

No. No. He’d remember. But —

Oh, God.

It’s not his place to present misgivings.)

“Thank you,” he says. That’s one thing he doesn’t do enough: thank people for shit. It’s something he shouldn’t just — do when he feels the need to. It should be default.

His siblings make faces.

Instead of doubt, they grin.

They finish breakfast in Five’s bedroom. His toast has strawberry jelly on it.

* * *

There is a determinist policy at the Commission. They might say otherwise, but there’s a simple truth. Free will is nonexistent — the Commission _is_ free will. They made sure that history acts as it was meant to act. Nothing is unforeseeable.

He can’t fucking sleep.

Five doesn’t know how old he is. (Or, he’s forgotten. He can’t decide what’s worse.) He kept track in the apocalyptic space of his hometown — fifty-eight. He was fifty-eight when the Handler found him. (Thirteen at arrival. Twenty-five years alone. Twenty with Delores.) Beyond that, there was no room for quantity in the Commission. Nineteen-fourteen is the same as two-thousand-two. He couldn’t keep track.

And there’s the factor of his body — between jumps through past and future, it was altered. He was younger, then he was older. The body does not often correlate with the mind — but _still_. Different eyes give different output. No one is ever treated the same.

(Most officers at the Commission were ageless.)

Fuck. Is Five _aging_ like a fifty-eight-year-old man? Then the milestones have been fucking hit. Has the fucking — abnormal amyloid precursor protein awakened in his goddamned chromosomes? Early-onset Alzheimer’s will begin even at thirty. And hell, Five hasn’t had the healthiest lifestyle, either — sleep isn’t frequent at the Academy, and it isn’t frequent at the Commission. If this is any indication, sleep isn’t a real thing.

And the _soul_ isn’t a real thing either. No way. It’s childish. If there was soul, or good, or evil, then Five wouldn’t do half to the shit he’s doing.

(That’s not the concern, though. Morality is a perspective, not a question.)

He’s older than his twins.

No, his fucking — septuplets.

Fucking twins.

How can he reverse this? Time travel will just fucking exacerbate this problem. He thought it was a solution before. Fucking time travel is the root of all his problems.

He doesn’t know how fast it’ll happen. He doesn’t know if it’ll be painful, either, but Five has never shied away from that.

If it wasn’t for his family, he wouldn’t give a fuck. (They’re his reason. They’re his — they’re six of the only people he’d save the world for.) Assholes.

Blueberries are linked to improving brain function. Eight hours of sleep a day for adults — though maybe Five’s an adolescent, now, so he’ll need at least ten — this fucking spontaneous-ass insomnia is not fucking helping him. God. And — he’ll need to drink water enough to make his piss look clear. Fucking — he needs math. Math problems. (That’s not a concern.) He’ll make himself reminders. (He might be losing his propensity, maybe, but he’s not going to make a fucking fool out of himself.) He’ll put everything from the turn of the century onto paper. (He’ll use his purple clicker pen.)

This isn’t an attempt at cure. He’s fine. This is just fucking prophylaxis.

* * *

It’s midnight. Five jumps into Ben’s room to steal his unused journals — Ben used to hoard them like a fucking dragon — but Ben’s awake. He’s sitting in a corner with Allison.

“Why are you guys still up?” Five asks.

“Why are _you_ still up?” Allison replies. “Five, why are you still in your uniform?” He didn’t even realize. “I was just — talking to Ben.”

It’s been a while since they could do that.

Maybe Allison is crying. Maybe Ben is, too. But the light isn’t hitting at a proper angle.

“It — looks like it,” Five says.

He usually finds himself more articulate.

(“I fucking want to kill everything,” Five said. He was twelve, and fucking tired of it. A mission went south, or he’d offended Vanya somehow, or he’d fucked up during training, or — God, something. Something there. “I’ll kill myself, too.”

“If you do, I’m going to cry. Let that be a — resistance thing.” And after, he knows Ben said, “I dig your angst.” Then, “Okay. You want to talk about it?”

He was a meditative force.

“Fuck you,” said Five, feeling bitter. But he followed that with a pathetic, “Yes.”

They took Ben for granted. They didn’t know what they had until it was fucking gone.

Ben said, “Do you want advice or anything?”

And Five told him, “No.” He wonders what would have gone differently if he had asked for it.

Even small changes push the future.)

“You still have that pen,” Ben notices. Vanya’s pen. Purple ink. G2. Had it been Ben’s? “You want to — talk shit with us? There’s plenty of time.”

Journals. Five came here for journals.

(The first thing he’ll write is his date of birth. Standard.)

“Sure,” he says. “Okay.”

He sits with them.

* * *

They go to Griddy’s for lunch the next day. It’s the first time they’ve gone as a group in years. Five doesn’t think he’s lost anything — he knows who he is, who his family is, _where_ he is, where the fucking bathroom is — but this shit is difficult to gauge.

Vanya treats them to milkshakes.

She ordered vanilla. Diego ordered chocolate. Allison ordered strawberry. Luther ordered peanut butter. Klaus ordered the pina colada flavor. (Vanya specified non-alcoholic.) Five ordered blueberry. Ben ordered peach.

Right now, Five is forming an explicit, declarative memory. (The implicit, non-declarative shit’s for subconscious things. Habits. Motor movement.) His senses gather information. Changes at the cellular and molecular level — and the growth of new synapses — occur at every moment. He’s present, and he’s learning. Forward and forward.

And reverse. Time is just a vessel. People conjured it out of thin air.

“Sometimes I forget we’re not really related,” says Ben.

Luther’s done with his shake. “Yes, we are.”

“I mean,” Ben proceeds, “We have — different moms. We come from different places, and then we’re here. How did it start?”

Vanya stirs her straw around. “Well, I guess, like, Dad came here from Britain,” she says, “or Europe or Mars or whatever. He was rich, and he needed a nice place to stay. So he found out that an umbrella factory was on lease, and he bought it out. And he wanted to save the world, so he had kids. Bought kids. Whatever. Some shit that did, right?” She’s nonchalant about it. “Pogo told me most of it. I never got much from Dad, but I got a little.”

“If you could meet your birth mother,” says Allison, “would you do it?”

“No,” Vanya says immediately. “I have everything I need here. Even if it’s — fucking horrible.” She smiles, a little bashfully.

“I want to meet her,” says Ben. “But I want all of you to come with me. Vanya’s right. You’re horrible. But I’d want her to meet you, too.”

“I don’t know if I would,” says Diego. “Because — if they fucking sold us, that means they — they didn’t want us. They gave us up and everything. I mean, no hard feelings there. It happened how it happened. Superpowered babies are fucking — you know.”

“You’re still a superpowered baby,” Klaus tells him. “I want to meet her. Fucking yeah. That’ll be — it’ll be insane. Like — look how fucked up your son ended up! Maybe it’s hereditary. What if she’s a ginger? What if I had ginger _siblings?_ ”

“But you do have siblings,” Luther says. He’s trying to collect the whipped cream at the bottom of his glass.

Klaus points. “None of _you_ are ginger. You got close, Luther, but you never made it that far.”

There’s a reassuring thing about memory loss: it’s not _permanent_. At least not entirely. Memories are stored among cells, branching out like ripples in water — like tides. Those tides are controlled by chemical receptors that regulate emotion And sometimes it fucks up. Sometimes outside-system receptors — GABA receptors that respond to gamma-aminobutyric acids — block access to certain events. Trauma causes suppression, but it isn’t unlockable.

It’s just something he has to consider.

But it’s not like he’s fucking going crazy or anything.

This milkshakes taste different. He doesn’t know the change.

Allison seems to take a glance at all of them. “What about you, Luther?”

“Me?” Everyone nods. “Well… no. I don’t know. What would I tell her? There’s nothing left to link us. I don’t think I’d be able to do it.” He’s contemplative. “ _You’re_ not saying anything, Allison.”

“Neither is Five.”

“Allison,” everyone goes, chiding.

She surrenders. “Fine. I’d might as well go and meet her. And I’d ask her everything I’d want to ask.” She lets it be. “Five, you still —”

“Probably not,” he says. “I wouldn’t want to.” They seem to expect further concession. “It doesn’t matter in the end.” Vanya’s almost squinting at him. He brushes it off. “We all have the same background. We’ve seen and done things that no one else can claim. We have the same _father_.” It’s worth something.

They think about it.

“What do you mean?” says Vanya.

“Like, biologically?” says Luther.

Well.

“Reginald Hargreeves,” says Ben, “got around fast.”

Diego has a straight face. “Magical sperm.”

“Ma-jaculation,” says Klaus.

They all tap their feet and grind their teeth.

Then Diego laughs in a hissing, snorting choke.

The silence fucking shatters. Five attempts to contribute.

* * *

This photo is fading. It looks like the seven of them. They are outdoors, and they look very young.

There’s only six of them in this one. Luther, Diego, Allison, Klaus, Five, Ben. They’re a little older — eight, maybe — nine — and posed. There’s a blur of mass in the middle, and movement, captured.

And the third: they’re all on the couch. Ben and Five are reading from the same book. Vanya and Allison seem to be dancing. Luther, Diego, and Klaus are playing cards.

He can only see it objectively. As if from a screen.

He writes what he remembers. He was a toddler here. He — was on the property. They were playing tag, or it looks like it.

Yeah, and here — it was a professional photo. Vanya was never in these, but she was probably in the background. They were going for austerity, but Klaus fucked it up. It was intentional. It got hard to rally them back afterwards.

And here… when was this taken?

(Why would there be photos of them? Their father was not a sentimental man. He thought children could be bought and sold.

Then again: portraits in the living room. Those cost a fucking fortune, from what Five hears. Aren’t there keepsakes of them around the house, too?)

He doesn’t want to _lose_ this.

He’s not losing this.

He’s —

Commission workers were made to be on the move at all times. They don’t have a home. But Five does.

What if tomorrow’s the day it’s all gone?

It’s spontaneous like that.

It’s unpredictable.

He doesn’t care about his faculties. Not anymore. He thinks he did, but he knows now that it’s fleeting. He doesn’t care about the job he had, or the roles played, or the lives he’s ended — it’s fucked up. It’s fucked up, he knows, but he doesn’t give a fuck. He doesn’t give a fuck about that.

Five doesn’t want to lose his family.

He lost them once, but that wasn’t forever. What if _this_ is forever? It’s going to be. At the trend he’s following, he’s going to lose his grip on all of it. What if they tell him something, and he’s blank? What if he wakes up one day, and he doesn’t recognize their faces? What if they realize that a part of him is gone?

How is he going to get it back? The unlockable part of memory loss is jammed.

There are seven fucking people that give a fuck about him. That _really_ give a fuck about him. Most of those people are his siblings.

They’re staying up into the morning. Drinking fucking milkshakes. Joking around. They’re acting like fucking kids.

They never got the chance.

 _Five_ never got the chance.

God.

He can’t tell them that anything’s happening to him. That anything might be happening to him. It’ll ruin everything.

They’re — they’re so _happy_ right now. They haven’t had a sliver of rest in decades. Now there’s opportunity, open and accessible, and they’re taking it.

Five should be taking it, too. But he knows he can’t. It’s too late.

No. Fuck. Nothing’s too late. He can fix it before they notice, and it’ll work itself out. He’ll find a way.

That’s how it should be.

* * *

They have a fucking apple tree in their backyard. From what he’s been told, it has always been there.

There are two possibilities: they must have picked apples in the spring. Diego and Klaus probably climbed the branches, and Luther must have yelled at them not to fall. Ben might have used his powers to reach the top. And the three of the could have tossed down apples — Allison and Vanya would have caught them all in plastic buckets. Five thinks he would have supervised.

Or, none of it happened, and he’s trying to fill in the blanks that aren’t there.

That’s how — that’s how memory works.

Diego tosses Five an apple. Then Vanya. Then Allison. Then Ben, then Luther, then Klaus. “Dad would never let us touch this shit.” Oh. “Look at us now.”

“Maybe they’re poisoned,” Ben says. “Maybe they’re cursed.”

Allison polishes her apple on her shirt. “It’s like those assassinations we did.”

“You’ve done _assassinations?_ ” Vanya says.

Luther takes a bite out of his apple. He doesn’t seem satisfied with it. “Once or twice, I think. I don’t think it was political. Or maybe it was.”

That’s right. That’s what the Umbrella Academy was for. They — Five doesn’t know.

Vanya asks them, “What’s that like?” They wait for more. “Killing people. A lot of people. I mean, I killed — one person.” Oh.

“You get used to it,” says Diego. “The people I’ve killed — it’s not as many as some of you may think, but they weren’t _great_ people. Far from it. But — it’s different when you’re younger.” He thinks about it. “You okay?”

“I’m okay,” says Vanya. “This just — I don’t know, guys. Politically-motivated killing makes ‘Umbrella Academy’ kind of… not a good description.”

Allison almost frowns. “Like, the name?”

“Yeah, the name,” Vanya clarifies. “It’s inadequate.”

“You’re right,” says Ben. “Our name sucks. We’re not some kind of — meteorology school.”

“Do we need an update or something?” Luther asks.

“It’s not,” says Diego. “I say we change it.”

“Yeah, none of that _Umbrella_ bullshit,” Klaus suggests. “None of that Academy bullshit. We’re fucking adults now. We’ve graduated. We’re the Hargreees Happy Helpers. That is final.”

“Not that,” says Diego.

But Allison’s smiling. “I love it, Klaus. Triple H Squad. H-Force. Hargreeves Happy Helpers.”

“That’s disgusting,” Diego says.

Klaus shrugs. “I don’t take constructive criticism.”

“That’s why you’re unemployed.”

Luther comes to his defense. “He’s part of the Hargreeves Happy Helpers.”

“Happy Hargreeves Helpers,” Ben announces. “Lending a hand.”

“A _helping_ hand,” Klaus adds. “Alliteration.”

“We should make public service announcements,” Vanya tells them.

Diego huffs. “I’ll fucking — murder you all on camera. Don’t think I won’t.”

“Is this apple ripe?” Five asks.

Wait.

He’s interrupted something. All of them seem conscious of that.

“It is,” Vanya lets him know.

He still doesn’t eat it.

* * *

When he was about — was it nine? Ten? (He writes it down.) Allison used to sing a lot. She doesn’t sing much anymore. It’s because — yeah. Of course.

She was singing then. Mom came in and told them that Dad was working — and they kept singing.

They fell asleep on the floor. That’s how they ended up.

What was the song? Five used to have the lyrics down.

Something so stupid and simple should be easy to recall.

But he doesn’t remember. Once he — God. _God_.

No, no, it’s — it’s fine.

He can just — leave. Right? That’s a possibility. He has the ability to go anywhere — and he has the strength to do it. That hasn’t been fucked with yet. It’ll save his family the pain for the exchange of — something else.

Would that make it easier on them if they never found out? There are two things that will happen: they will understand, or they’ll hunt him down with the force of hell.

And once he figures it out, he can come back. He’s done it before.

Nothing has ever been easy with the goddamn Hargreeves.

* * *

Allison and Diego are out getting food. Vanya’s teaching a strings camp at the university. Ben’s checking in with Pogo.

Five puts sticky notes around the house.

 _Bathroom,_  this one says. _Bathroom._ _Bathroom._ There are three fucking bathrooms in the Academy. Four. No, Five. There are five. He finds another — six. He marks a note for the living room, and arrows for directions. He makes a note for the kitchen. He marks his room, and his siblings’ rooms. He marks his dad’s old office. He marks the tunnels in the basement, and where they lead. He marks storage closets, and the laundry room, and their old, dusty lounges.

It feels like a chore.

“What the fuck, man?” says Klaus.

Luther appears from the hallway. “What are you doing?”

Five didn’t hear them coming.

“Well,” Five explains, “what if Klaus comes home high, and he doesn’t know where he’s going? And Luther —” he’s got to think of an excuse — “you’re fucking tall.”

“I think I can manage,” says Luther, smiling a bit.

“ _High,_  Five?” says Klaus, amused with himself. “I’ve been sober for, what, as long as we’ve been laying around here? Months. Damn.” Fuck. “I didn’t even cheat. It’s a wild ride.”

Five tells him, “I’d imagine,” and wishes they’d leave.

“You need help?” Luther offers.

Klaus nods. “That’s a lot of sticky notes.”

Well. It is.

God, he should have been more careful. He should have blamed this on — something else. But they would have fucking noticed, anyway. Five is stupid. He really should be doing this alone.

“Sure.”

Luther takes Five’s pen and clicks it. “Don’t forget the attic.” Five grabs it back.

Klaus pulls the pen away from him. He draws a dick on a sticky note and slaps it on the wall. “Shall we?”

Fucking dumbasses.

* * *

He made a checklist, so it stays fresh in his mind:

Blueberries are not in season, unless he tolerates the artificial, sugary kind. That’ll do more harm than good. Five has to verify the month he’s in.

And Five never fucking gets any sleep, and he should have known that’s a given. Staying hydrated isn’t at the top of his priorities — unless it’s coffee. Maybe he’s stagnating.

His room is covered in chalk dust, and his walls are smeared with fucking parent functions.

And he writes. He writes as much as he can.

His handwriting has regressed significantly.

* * *

“I’m going to the pharmacy at the department store,” Vanya says. “I’ve got to pick something up.”

It’s an invitation.

Allison raises her hand. “I’ll drive you.”

“You don’t have to,” Vanya says, almost apologetically.

“But I want to.” Allison is already looking for her keys. “We can do something afterward if you want. Don’t fight me on this!”

“I thought — I thought you didn’t take medicine anymore, Vanya,” Five says.

Vanya gathers her things. “I still have allergies, though. That’s a problem.”

While Vanya’s waiting in line, he and Allison tour the aisles.

“We need to buy you new clothes,” Allison comments. “At some point. I didn’t bring any cash with me. But you need more variety than blue khakis.” He finds it familiar, that’s all. “I don’t think you’ll like any of the youth stuff, though. I just have a feeling.” She coughs.

“Don’t exert yourself,” Five advises. There doesn’t seem to have been a time before Allison’s voice was dry and raspy.

“Don’t stress about it, then.”

Delores is in the jewelry section. She’s wearing a hat, and bracelets, and rings.

He still recognizes her.

Oh, God, does she recognize _him?_ He thinks he’s different from the last time he saw her. How long had that been? He’s been here before. He’s been here recently. Why doesn’t he remember seeing her?

“Look,” says Allison. “It’s your girlfriend.”

It doesn’t sound like she’s mocking him.

“You know each other?” He didn’t think they’ve met. Luther’s the only one who figured it out.

“You — talk about her every once in a while. And we go to the department store. Not all the time, but.” They do. Yeah, they do. “Are you… going to say hi?”

“Can you come with me?” He says it without thinking. He sounds so fucking stupid.

Delores. God, what’s he going to _say?_ It feels like it’s been so long, but he’s known her longer than even his siblings. What’s left to say that hasn’t been said before? Five isn’t keeping track.

Allison puts her hand on his shoulder, almost hesitantly. “Okay.”

But Vanya comes back with a white paper bag. There’s a barcode on it.

“Let’s go home,” she says. “Unless —”

Five gathers himself. “Right.”

Vanya looks at him.

* * *

“Master Five,” says Pogo.

Five follows the sound. There he is.

“Don’t clean up the sticky notes, please,” Five says, his throat feeling sore. “Don’t…”

“It’s best to tell them.”

Oh.

“I’m not ready,” says Five.

Pogo sighs, looking sorry.

Five walks away.

* * *

Where’s his pen?

It’s not in his pocket. It’s always in his pocket.

God, his pen — it was purple. All of his journals are blotted with purple letters. It didn’t have a brand on it. His siblings gave it to him. He doesn’t think that the ink has dried out yet —

But had it? 

Had he thrown it way?

He threw his fucking pen away.

Five jumps to every trash can in the house. He hears his siblings question him, but he can’t acknowledge them.

 Fuck.

He makes a jump to the dumpster.

The garbage gets collected at noon. It says so on the sign.

Fuck.

Did he even realize it?

God, how —

No way. No way in fucking hell. It was his _pen._  It was — it was fucking _important_. Everything was important to him. Now there’s no fucking difference. He doesn’t know. But he _did._ That’s — his pen. His pen. If _it_ meant nothing to him, then everything will mean nothing to him. He — it was his. He _knew_ it was his. He knew there was substance to it. Why would he — what did he do? What is he doing? Goddammit. Goddammit, _goddammit_ — he’s an idiot. He’s a fucking _idiot_. He’s _weak,_ and a _coward_ , and —

He’s never going to get it back.

The pen is on his desk.

* * *

Five needs to fight it.

Well, what has he been doing all this time? 

It’s easy to break into the department store. He doesn’t have to touch anything. Also, it’s eight-thirty in the evening, and closing time doesn’t come until nine.

He goes to the jewelry section.

“Hey,” he says, “Delores.” It’s a start. “I — I brought you something.” It’s a scarf. It was Allison’s, then Klaus’s — he took it from her — and Five bartered his way into inheriting it. Delores likes gifts, he thinks. He wrote that down somewhere. “It’s — when was the last time we saw each other? You look beautiful. As always.” Delores is easily flattered, but she’s not one for niceties. “I know. I shouldn’t have — bluffed my way out of — I know. I should have just — walked up to you. I know. But things aren’t the same.” How so? “I’m going to be frank with you. I might be losing it.” She finds it funny. “Don’t — Delores. I’m serious. I — I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t know who else to talk to. Don’t just ignore me. I’m going to — I’m going to _forget_ you. Do you understand? Time travel fucks you up. One day, I’m going to think you’re a stranger.”

Fuck. Fuck, just — he hates it. He _hates_ it. Five _hates_ it.

She’s not saying anything.

Five wishes it was different. “Delores.” Why isn’t she _saying_ anything? “It’s hard to take, but it’ll be over soon.” He’s making sure of it. “Delores, come on. I need you to say something.” She doesn’t. “Why aren’t you — were you always so — Delores. I need your help. You’re the only one who can help me.” He was too proud to admit it. “Delores, please.”

She’s motionless.

Because she’s a fucking mannequin.

She’s a toy. A display. And Five is — 

A delusional bastard. 

“You don’t _care_ about me,” he says. “You _can’t_ care about me.” Five has known this. Maybe he always has. “I’m _fucking stupid_. You’re —”

She’ll never give him a word. She’s never given hima word. Speech counts time, and when he was with her time never flowed — how long was he with her? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know if what he’s thinking is fact or fiction.  

Two things branch from here: Delores is a lie, or Delores is the truth.

She’s a fucking, fucking — 

No. No, he can’t do that to her.

What if — 

He _needs_ her. He needs her because everything _was_ fake, and _is_ fake, and she was real. Nothing was more real than Delores. She’s a _person_ — just as much as he is. She made him feel like a person when he was just a husk. He was alone, and she _loved_ him. She _loves_ him. She kept him sane. He needs her, but she’s better off here. He’s better off without her.

Delores is a lie.

Delores is the truth.

Five is a lie.

Five is the truth.

“I’m sorry.” He says it in a cycle.

An employee asks him where his parents are.

* * *

He returns to the Academy, and his family has invaded his bedroom.

They pretend that they’ve been doing nothing.

Shit.

“What are you doing?” Five says. “You’re not supposed to be in here.”

They look at him like he’s about to disappear.

This must have been meant to be.

Vanya hands him one of his journals. “You’re — what were you thinking?” Her voice starts shouting like she isn’t in control of it. So does the room. “Why didn’t you tell us earlier? Why didn’t you tell _me?”_  

“Did I have to?”

She exits without much explanation.

* * *

It looks a little dark outside. They should close the windows before the whole town thinks the house is on fire.

He sits at the dinner table. Allison has given him a glass of water, and Ben made him spaghetti. His siblings are discussing him in the living room. They think that his memory has affected his ears.

They’re plenty loud enough, anyway.

And they come to the conclusion that Five is to be supervised at all times.

“I’m _all right_ ,” he calls out. “I’m going to be all right.” He has taken all the necessary precautions. “Don’t be fucking stupid.”

* * *

They go to a doughnut place for breakfast today. He used to come here all the time — it was a versatile place.

It’s cold. Even though it’s early, his siblings let him have a cookies-and-cream milkshake. All the chunks have stuck to the bottom of the cup.

“Is it going to be bad?” asks Ben.

At first, Five doesn’t know what he means.

“I won’t be able to tell,” he admits. “I — I can’t tell for sure.”

Diego rubs his hand over his face. “You — you know who we are, right? You know _where_ — where you are? 

“Of course I fucking do.”

“How much of it,” says Allison. “How much of it can you remember?”

There are parts of the house he wouldn’t recognize. He’s — glad there’s goddamn sticky notes everywhere. “I wrote it all down.”

They don’t have to fucking worry.

Five wasn’t built for this.

“There’s no way to — recover anything?” Luther asks.

“Well, there is.” There must be. He just hasn’t cracked the code yet. “It’s not very attainable.” He’s giving them hope where there isn't much.

None of them fit right in solemn.

What was it like before?

What was _Five_ like?

These are questions he shouldn’t have to ask. But he has to.

Vanya takes a napkin from the dispenser. “You were trying to learn German.” Five only speaks one language. “You — you got me into it. We’d practice every day until we gave up. _Ich liebe dich_ is the most I know, really.” She takes a shaky breath. “We did that with a lot of languages. French. Cantonese. We learned a bit of Spanish. _Te amo._ That sort of thing.”

He’s not sure what this is about. 

“Yeah, and I fucking gave you a scar when we were seven,” Klaus says. “I pushed you, but I told Mom and Pogo that you tripped. They didn’t believe me. The scar’s on your knee.”

The scar _is_ on his knee.

“We’d sneak into the mall,” says Diego. “You’d take me with you, and we’d steal shit.”

 “Oh, my God,” Ben goes. “Remember when all of us went? All seven of us. It was — it was at an outlet. We did a scavenger hunt. We’d jump through all of the shops, and we triggered an alarm somewhere.” 

They all kind of laugh, in a strained way.

These are snapshots. Some of them he’s encountered before, some of them he hasn’t.

They each tell him new things. They share the old.

* * *

He hears a sound in his house: the violin. Vanya, or a recording.

It’s Vanya, in her room.

She stops when he opens her door.

Wait, no. She should — keep going.

He knows this song.

“You want to listen to me practice?” she says gently.

He’s not a fucking kid. He’s — he’s not.

Still.

“Okay.”

He sits on her bed.

* * *

On the wall, with other sticky notes:

A drawing of a fucking dick.

Crudely made.

Wow.

He removes the note and looks at it.

He puts it back where it was.

* * *

They’re talking about Allison’s daughter. They’re talking about how tall she’s gotten, and how smart she is.

“I want to meet her,” Five says. He hasn’t yet. “When can I meet her?”

It’s quiet.

Vanya speaks up. “Allison has visitation rights.”

No. No, if she did, he would have known that.

But he’s broken the conversation.

* * *

“Ben?”

Ben is fucking alive.

He’s older — just like his other siblings.

And he’s right in front of Five, in the flesh.

Fuck. Fuck, when he died, and they came home, Vanya wouldn’t believe them — no one could believe it —

Five doesn’t know what to say.

“What’s wrong?” says Ben. “Five, what’s wrong? Are you okay? It’s okay.”

“When the fuck did you get here?” he asks. “Ben, when did you get here? Why didn’t you come home right away?” He must have waited.

Five fucking tried to get back to him again. He tried to find a way to get back to all of them. He made it his lifeline. He made it his _purpose._  Otherwise, he has none.

Then there is an empty space between Point A and Point B. 

His brother stares at him. “Five, we should — okay. I’m getting Vanya. I’m getting Allison. I’m getting —”

“Ben,” he says. This can’t be real. It can’t be real. “Ben, fucking _look_ at me.”

And he doesn’t know if he’s mad.

* * *

“Try this on,” says Allison. They’re at the department store. She gives him a polo shirt. “It’s nice.”

It’s green. “This is terrible.” He gives it to Luther.

“What,” says Luther, “you think… this is going to fit me?”

“Put it back,” says Five. “I’ll look for something better.”

“So judgemental,” says Klaus. “I want to see you in — a fucking necklace. Earrings.”

“I’d rather not.”

They all seem so masked in concern, and they won’t tell him anything specific.

There is a mannequin in the jewelry aisle with a scarf on. He thinks he’s seen it before.

* * *

Is this his handwriting?

It starts out okay, then it’s messy.

It’s like he wrote this years ago.

Maybe he did.

* * *

He has a moment of clarity.

There is a notebook on his desk. Everything in it is written in purple ink:

His name is Five Hargreeves. He has never had another name — he asked for one, once, but didn’t like the options.

He has a family, and it’s dysfunctional: a father, who had died, a mother, who is a robot, and a caregiver, who is a monkey.

With that, he has five brothers and two sisters. They have the same birthday: October first, nineteen-eighty-nine. He is younger and older than them all at once.

Okay.

It’s stuff he’s aware of.

That’s basic. Basic shit.

Does he regret anything?

Obviously. Probably. He thinks so. Five thinks he regrets almost everything. That doesn’t mean it’s worthless. That doesn’t mean that his life lacks... value.

He shouldn’t have spent so much time — wasting time.

Two things may happen:

Five is going to be forgotten to the cosmos.

Five, in his essence, will never end.

He was scared before, he thinks. What’s morning, what’s day, and what’s night?

But now he’s given up. 

At least partially.

It took quite the struggle.

* * *

He wakes up.

There is a clicker pen in his pocket — he seems to have fallen asleep in formal clothing — and a sticky note on his closet. He leaves his room, and there is a sticky note on every stairway. The words are shaped differently on each one. He follows the note marked to the living room. There’s hallways, branching out. This one leads — where will it lead?

He hears footsteps behind him. There are six people with him in this corridor.

This is embarrassing.

“Sorry,” he says. “I’m — looking for my sister.”

And his sister, and his brother, and his brother, and his brother, and his brother, and his brother — he has a family. That’s for sure.

Suddenly he’s pulled into an embrace.

Causal loops. What are they? He thinks he knows.

Again, and again, and again, and again, and again. There are two options — and there are none.

**Author's Note:**

> [five, realizing that relentless time travel leads to a decrease in mental fitness](https://i.kym-cdn.com/entries/icons/original/000/027/475/Screen_Shot_2018-10-25_at_11.02.15_AM.png) 
> 
> [yo let’s talk about the prevalence of memory-related afflictions as a result of revolutions in health technology on Tumblr via this portal right here I will be your kaulayaw or friend to last forever](https://kaulayau.tumblr.com)  
> [and lastly here come join our TUA Discord server and have an illustrated sticky note](https://discord.gg/muPgAGv)
> 
> <3


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